


sing, sweet nightingale

by mairamaia



Category: Cinderella (1950)
Genre: Abuse, Branding, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, F/F, Fingerfucking, Humiliation, Object Insertion, Rape, and other creepiness, but also it's sort of a character study?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mairamaia/pseuds/mairamaia
Summary: Cinderella sees her stepmother for the first time in three years.





	sing, sweet nightingale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ijemanja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijemanja/gifts).



When Cinderella returned to her chambers to get ready for the banquet, she found a love note from her husband on her pillow.

She picked it up between two fingers and held it to the light of the window, examining it. It described a woman tender of heart and innocent of spirit, possessed of a soul as unblemished as her pale skin and a sense of joy as bright as her golden hair. In short, as Cinderella had suspected, it described a woman who didn’t exist. She folded it and placed it in a box with the others.

Three years ago, a note like this would have brought her to tears. She would’ve spent the rest of the day plagued by guilt, and would've stayed up half the night terrified that she would never live up to her husband's love.

She stood up, went to the mirror, and brushed her hair, taking her time with each stroke. Even after three years of being a prince's wife, events like these fed the nagging, ever-present fear in the back of her mind. Having something to do with her hands kept her from thinking about the dire consequences of a social slip. 

A maid knocked on the door, and Cinderella told her to come in.

“I’m here to dress you,” she said. Cinderella recognized her—she was young, probably around seventeen, and often came to tidy up the room after Cinderella had already cleaned it in a fit of nervous energy. Usually, Cinderella explained herself by smiling shyly and saying that she didn’t want to put anyone out. Once, she’d even let this particular young girl try on some of her jewelry.

The girl was twisting her hands around each other, and refusing to meet Cinderella’s eyes. She was nervous. She had something to say.

“You may begin,” said Cinderella. The maid began to undo the bindings on her dress.

“Princess,” the maid began nervously.

Cinderella smiled encouragingly. “Yes, dear?”

That was all it took for the maid to start babbling about a conversation she’d overheard between two influential ladies of the court, one of whom was considering lending her support to a duke who sought to challenge the legitimacy of the royal line. Cinderella played the part of the naïve young princess, first shocked, then afraid, and finally grateful. By the time Cinderella was ready to gently escort her out the door, the girl was so relieved that Cinderella would be safe that she was near tears. 

Everyone said she was kind. The compliment didn’t mean much to Cinderella. She knew that kindness was a skill, not a quality. In her years living in Lady Tremaine’s house, she’d learned when and how to soften herself, not out of virtue, but out of necessity.

Her husband entered the room and, with a boyish delight in his eyes, asked her if she’d liked the poem. Cinderella smiled and lied. Delighted, he swept her up and kissed her. She kissed back, effortlessly feigning passion. It had been more difficult to respond to his affections in the first months, but she’d used that to her advantage, allowing her husband to think of her as a wounded animal he'd nursed back to health. It was better that he didn’t know she was holding herself together with fraying twine and hope. 

He offered his arm, and she allowed him to lead her down to the banquet. 

* * *

In her most desperate moments, Cinderella asked herself three questions. The first was, “how do I get out of this alive?” The second was, “how do I get out of this alive and sane?” The third was, “How do I get out of this alive, sane, and happy?”

At the banquet, the answer to the first question was “find a way to keep any potential allies away from the traitorous duke,” the answer to the second question was, “distract herself from the pressure of the court’s attention,” and the answer to the third question was “drink.”

She took note of the people sitting near her. On her right was a man who enjoyed explaining things at length to people he considered his intellectual inferiors, and who would often let pertinent information slip if Cinderella affected an air of dim-witted innocence. On her left was a woman whose cousin she'd quietly ruined once she learned about the sadistic punishments he'd inflicted on his serving girls. As far as she could tell, the man's extended family had no idea Cinderella was involved, but she was on alert whenever they were nearby, just in case. Across the table was a sharp older woman, one of the few who saw through Cinderella's guileless facade. Luckily, she was smart enough to know that she wanted the future queen as an ally, not an enemy. She made eye contact with Cinderella and nodded slightly.

If nothing else, Tremaine had taught her some necessary skills. Fundamentally, the art of politics and the art of survival were one and the same.

As the night wore on, she kept her usual mental list of small victories. She did not startle when a lord near her accidentally dropped a knife on the table during dinner. When she heard the tapping of a cane behind her, she successfully wrestled down the urge to run, and instead made a point of greeting its owner. She did flinch when a duchess grasped her bare wrist without warning, but luckily, the woman appeared to be too drunk to notice.

Overall, the evening was going well. Earlier, she’d instructed a servant to make sure the would-be traitor duke’s wine goblet was full at all times. She'd disguised the request with an innocent affectation of hospitality--"I overheard him saying he wanted to drink heavily tonight, and I just want to make sure his needs are anticipated"--the sort of thing only she could convincingly pretend. Now, she smiled as she watched the drunken man stumble over to the lady who’d intended to ally with him and began to make loud, uncouth remarks about the cut of her dress.

It was at this moment that a footman approached her.

“My princess, I have a message from your stepmother. She’s here to see you.”

Cinderella stared at him. “No, she’s not,” she said.

Obviously taken aback, the footman said, “She is. She sent me to request an apology.”

Cinderella shook her head. Clearly, the footman didn’t understand. Her first act as crown princess had been to ban her stepmother from court entirely. Lady Tremaine had, of course, tried to circumvent her, but Cinderella had intercepted all her attempts with a precision previously known only to certain birds of prey. In this palace, the world turned on Cinderella’s word, and it was therefore impossible for her stepmother to be here.

And yet, the certainty in the footman’s eyes destabilized her, as though someone had taken an axe to her legs.

“She’s waiting for you in your chambers,” he said.

“Who on earth let her in my chambers?” she said, feeling the pitch of her voice ascend to hysterical levels against her will. The footman looked shocked, almost hurt.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, fiercely pushing down the panic and softening once again. “I need to go find my husband.”

* * *

“I didn’t realize she was coming tonight,” said Cinderella’s husband. “I promise, I would’ve warned you.”

Cinderella had pulled him into a nearby hallway. His words seemed to echo off the stone walls. This was real. It was really happening. Long-suppressed memories started to rise to the surface, so thick and fast she felt like she was choking on them.

“She reached out to my father. Apparently she feels she’s been snubbed,” said the prince. “Not that I blame her, we didn’t even invite her to the wedding.”

(She was ten years old and bent over the sink, the steam from the hot water lulling her into a kind of trance. Her fingers were cramped, her skin was cracked, and the water was so hot she could barely touch it, but she kept working, dipping the dishes in and scrubbing them until they were spotless. When she heard the sound of Lady Tremaine’s cane tapping on the ground, she started scrubbing harder. Lady Tremaine placed her hand on Cinderella’s head, digging her fingernails into her scalp. Cinderella squeezed her eyes shut, half-expecting Lady Tremaine to shove her head under the water. Instead, Lady Tremaine’s hands softened, and, almost gently, she stroked Cinderella’s hair, once, slowly.

“Good girl,” she said, then turned and left the room.

Cinderella’s hands still ached, but she felt a smile spreading across her face.)

“I don’t want her here,” Cinderella said numbly.

“And I would rather be tied to two startled horses and rent limb from limb than allow anything to upset you,” said her husband, in the casual way he always said such things. “The problem is that apparently she’s been causing problems for my father. It’s all politics, it’d bore you, dear.”

(She’d finished scrubbing the dining room floor, she _had_ , only Anastasia had tracked mud onto it a few minutes ago and of course it was Cinderella’s fault, it always was. Her hands trembled as she unbottoned the back of her dress, and she braced herself for the impact. Lady Tremaine took her time before hitting her, as if savoring her fear. When the first blow hit her back, it was almost a relief. Then Lady Tremaine’s cane hit her again, two, three, four, five more times, until Cinderella couldn’t hold back her sobs.)

“We can’t make her leave?” she said.

“No,” said her husband, then, with a note of hope in his voice. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Family is family, after all.”

(Every time Cinderella wanted something, Lady Tremaine found a way to dangle it in front of Cinderella like a cat toy only to snatch it away at the last minute, and every time, Cinderella fell for it. Even when she was old enough to know better. Some part of her always thought that if she worked hard enough, if she were kind enough, then maybe, just once...)

“Whatever you think is best,” she said.

He leaned over, took her hand, and kissed it. “I thought you might be ready for this grudge to come to an end,” he said.

“I am,” she said, because that was what he wanted to hear. 

* * *

In some ways, standing in front of Lady Tremaine’s door now was worse than it had been when she’d lived in Lady Tremaine’s house. Back then, fear had been ever-present, grinding her down like a millstone at all times. Now, it had mostly quieted to a nagging anxiety, which made moments like these all the worse.

 _She can’t hurt me. I’m the crown princess_ , Cinderella thought, and she knocked on the door.

“Come in.” The tone of her voice hadn’t changed. Cinderella’s right hand began to tremble. “Stop that,” she muttered.

She entered the room. Lady Tremaine stood regally beside her bed, her hands resting gently on the top of her cane. There was a fire in the fireplace, and the light from the flames cast strange shadows on the floor, as if Tremaine had transformed into the monster Cinderella had always thought she was. This was not encouraging.

“What do you want?” she managed to say. There was a slight tremor in her voice, and she started to feel the old sense of being trapped, as if there were invisible lines drawn around her, and if she crossed them, something terrible would happen. She hated herself for that. She was supposed to be better by now.

“Did you know that Drizella announced her engagement to Lord Arundelle’s eldest son two weeks ago?”

“I have better things to do than keep track of your daughter's romantic entanglements,” Cinderella lied--the match would've given Lady Tremaine a path back to court, so Cinderella had closed it off. Despite everything, the fact that Lady Tremaine had broached that subject gave her a certain thrill. _She’s here because I hurt her_ , she thought, and she savored the thought like a sip of fine wine.

“Last week, I received a letter from Lord Arundelle, saying that his son was withdrawing from the engagement, and was now promised to another,” said Lady Tremaine. “Now, how do you imagine that occurred?”

“Sometimes one finds true love in the most unexpected places,” Cinderella said with a sweet smile.

Lady Tremaine stepped forward and slapped her. The familiar sting was somehow vindicating. This was not like it had been before. She wasn’t some helpless, hopeless victim. She was the crown princess.

"Do you know, I could have you executed for that," Cinderella said mildly.

“I,” Lady Tremaine hissed, “am willing to tolerate the indignity of being excluded from court. But you will leave my daughters alone. And you will apologize to me.”

Cinderella knew her stepmother better than that. If Lady Tremaine had the ability to return to court life, she would have. The issue with Drizella must’ve motivated her to do something extreme to circumvent Cinderella, something she’d been unwilling to do before.

Cinderella slowly turned her head back towards Lady Tremaine. “I will not, thank you,” she said. “Now get out of my palace.” She turned to leave.

“Suit yourself,” said Lady Tremaine. “But you'll regret this once the rumors reach you.”

Cinderella stopped. "What rumors?" she said.

“I’ve been keeping track of you, dear," said Lady Tremaine. "Everything you've arranged, the druggings and the injuries and the shattered reputations. You've done some nasty things. And if word of that got out, well, you might find it more difficult to operate.”

Cinderella felt the way she used to feel after Lady Tremaine used to beat her. Naked and ugly.

“If I had taught you politics, my first lesson would’ve been that a virtuous reputation is difficult to maintain and easy to destroy,” said Lady Tremaine. “Apologize, or anyone who might even potentially be useful to you will know the truth.”

Her tone had taken on a dangerous edge that Cinderella knew all too well. She turned around slowly, her entire body tensing with fear.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she bowed her head slightly.

Lady Tremaine gripped Cinderella’s chin between her thumb and her index finger, then tilted her face upward.

“No,” she said. “I want a more memorable apology.”

Something felt wrong. It was a familiar wrongness. Cinderella had felt it whenever she was alone in a room with her stepmother ever since she turned sixteen. As though the air around her had thickened slightly, or all the furniture in the room had been shifted a little to the right. She’d always told herself she was imagining things, to keep herself sane.

If she'd had any choice in the matter, she would have run from the room.

“Fine,” she said. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“Take off your dress,” said Lady Tremaine.

The bluntness of the statement was an unexpected shock, like someone had dumped cold water on her while she was sleeping. _Not this, I can bear a lot from her but not this_ , she thought.

“I’m waiting,” said Lady Tremaine.

Slowly, as if underwater, Cinderella raised her hands and began unbuttoning her dress. One by one, each of her skirts dropped to the floor, until she was wearing nothing but her corset and chemise.

“That’s quite enough,” said Lady Tremaine. “Kneel on the bed with your hands behind your back.”

Cinderella obeyed. Perhaps, she thought, in a desperate attempt to reason with herself, Lady Tremaine was merely using the threat of rape to toy with her. It was the sort of thing she’d do, after all.

She kept her eyes to the ground. If she looked her stepmother in the eye, she’d know.

Lady Tremaine pulled a coil of rope out from under the bed, then began tying Cinderella’s wrists to the headboard.

“I agreed, you know,” said Cinderella. “You don’t have to tie me down.” Lady Tremaine pulled the rope tighter, and she winced, knowing that it would leave ugly, telling red marks on her wrists later. Perhaps she could wear gloves for a few weeks.

“I expect that, once I begin, you’ll be incapable of staying still,” said Lady Tremaine. She finished tying the rope, then began undoing the ties at the back of her corset. It loosened, and Lady Tremaine peeled it off, leaving Cinderella’s breasts exposed.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You left me with quite a pain tolerance,” Cinderella said, hoping the lightness in her voice came off as flippancy, and didn’t betray the fact that she could barely speak from fear.

Lady Tremaine smiled, ever so slightly, and, having finished tying Cinderella up, turned towards the fire. When she turned back, she held a long, hard poker in her hand, and she held it up, making sure Cinderella could see the red-hot metal “T” about the size of a robin’s egg on the end.

Cinderella almost laughed with relief. Just pain. She’d be okay.

Lady Tremaine stepped closer, slowly, as if trying to draw out the anticipation. Cinderella finally met her stepmother’s eyes. There was no lust, no desire, just a kind of cold amusement.

Cinderella glared back with as much fury as she could muster. _You think you can break me just by hurting me?_ she thought. _You tried for nineteen years, and it didn’t work._

Lady Tremaine placed a hand on the back of Cinderella’s head, pushing it forward and exposing the soft skin between her neck and her collarbone. Cinderella could feel the heat that emanated from the red-hot metal on her skin, and, panicking like a startled horse, tried to jerk her head out of the way.

Lady Tremaine gripped her by the hair and held her in place.

“You can’t,” Cinderella gasped, desperately wriggling. “People will see.”

“You’ll come up with an explanation,” said Lady Tremaine, and she pressed the brand into Cinderella’s skin.

The sound that came out of her was inhuman, something between a wail and a scream. Her vision blurred. She couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything except the pain.

And then Lady Tremaine pulled the brand away, and the worst of it was over. She settled back against the headboard and closed her eyes, letting tears leak out. Thoughts tried to float to the surface, thoughts like _I could feel my skin melting_ and _her mark will be on my body forever_ , but she shoved them away, focusing on the still darkness of the backs of her eyelids.

“Is this enough?” she said, and she felt her voice break as she spoke.

There was no answer, only the sound of Lady Tremaine’s heavy breathing. Cinderella opened her eyes.

Lady Tremaine stared at her with a bitter, furious hunger. Cinderella became acutely aware of how she looked. Her hair was tangled, her face flushed, her breasts exposed. Tear tracks cut through the thick layer of creams and powders that covered her face. Her chemise had slipped down to her hips, covering her lower half with a small puddle of silk.

The look in Lady Tremaine’s eyes was exactly what she had been afraid of seeing before. And if she hadn’t been equipped to handle her stepmother’s lust then, she certainly wasn’t now.

“Your second lesson,” Lady Tremaine said, her voice rough with desire, “would be that your body is your most powerful weapon. Use it.”

“No,” Cinderella whispered, too horrified to say anything else. “No, don’t.” She pressed her legs together. Instead of forcing them open, Lady Tremaine straddled her and gently began rolling her nipples between her fingers. Despite everything, Cinderella felt a small, delighted thrill, the same thrill she’d felt that day when she was washing the dishes and Lady Tremaine had stroked her hair. That desperation, to be valued and wanted and loved, had never really left her.

“You don’t belong here,” said Lady Tremaine. “In this palace, in these dresses, in this bed. You never did. I knew from the moment I saw you that you had all the intelligence and social grace of a common scullery maid. That you were worthless.”

Cinderella felt her eyes filling with tears again. _She’s wrong _, she thought, but it felt pathetic, like a child covering her ears and chanting “I can’t hear you” over and over.__

____

____

“Say it,” said Lady Tremaine. Cinderella had spent years trying to suppress her instinct to obey, but here it was, back in full force. She wished she had never gone to the ball and met the prince, never been ushered into this life full of fabulous dresses and fine foods and people who wanted her to be happy. If this had happened to her when she was still living under Lady Tremaine’s power and her entire being was focused on survival, it would have been horrible, but at the end of the day, it would be another one of the many tortures she’d learned to endure. Now, though, she’d allowed herself to grow used to comfort. In fact, she’d forced herself to let her guard down. She’d thought it was over.

“I’m,” she said in a small voice. “I’m worthless.”

Lady Tremaine stroked her hair gently, and Cinderella felt herself leaning into it. She didn’t think she could possibly loathe herself more than she did in that moment.

“Good girl,” said Lady Tremaine. “Now open your legs.”

Trembling, Cinderella obeyed. Lady Tremaine moved back, lifting up the skirt of Cinderella’s chemise and exposing her to the cold air of the room.

“Tell me you want this,” said Lady Tremaine.

“I won't. I _don't_ ,” said Cinderella. In answer, Lady Tremaine pinched the inside of her thigh, and she yelped.

“The sooner you do what I say, the sooner it’ll be over,” said Lady Tremaine, almost gently.

Cinderella felt like she was going to vomit. “I want this. Please,” she said.

Lady Tremaine began to massage Cinderella’s clit. Hot, sharp, horrible pleasure washed over her. Lady Tremaine had some kind of uncanny ability to apply the exact right amount of pressure in the exact right places, and, against her will, Cinderella shivered with pleasure.

“Please,” Cinderella said, her voice flattening into a whine. At this point, she wasn’t sure if she was begging Lady Tremaine to stop or begging her to keep going.

“I want you to tell me how worthless you are,” said Lady Tremaine.

Her jaw trembled. She was so overwhelmed, she wasn’t sure if she could get the words out. “I’m worthless, I’m worthless, please.”

Lady Tremaine slipped a finger into Cinderella’s pussy. “Fuck,” Cinderella moaned, helpless. Lady Tremaine began sliding her finger back and forth. Despite everything, there was something that appealed to her about the uncaring roughness of it, the way the constant, driving beat sent her overwhelmed body into spasms.

Lady Tremaine slipped another finger in.

“I think about it every night,” she heard her stepmother say, her voice ragged with fury. “You, here, in this bed, spreading your legs for him.” 

Cinderella, no longer able to form words, made a small, high-pitched keening sound. With a shuddering gasp, she felt herself come, so hard that the shock of it reverberated throughout her body. Hot tears ran down her cheeks.

“You ungrateful little brat,” Lady Tremaine spat. “I spent all that time raising you, keeping you fed and clothed, and you turned your back on me without a second thought. You disgust me.”

Her hand stilled, and Cinderella went limp with relief. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Tremaine bending down to pick something up off the ground. _My stepmother made me come,_ she thought dully. For a second, she saw herself the way Lady Tremaine saw her: a whimpering, quivering, pathetic slut, so desperate for attention and affection that her stepmother, the woman she hated most in the world, could turn her into this. A hot, sick feeling began to bloom in her stomach. Instinctively, she shifted the position of her neck so that her shoulder pressed into the fresh burn on her neck, effectively blocking out the shame and confusion with white-hot pain.

Lady Tremaine opened Cinderella’s pussy with her fingers, and Cinderella realized that the object in Lady Tremaine’s hands was her cane.

“No,” she whispered. “No, it won’t fit, please.”

“Tell me how worthless you are,” Lady Tremaine said once more.

“I’m worthless, I’m worthless, I’m worthless,” Cinderella said frantically, hoping against hope that that would be enough to stop her.

It wasn’t. Cinderella stared at the ceiling, unable to watch what was happening to her for another second. She felt the jewel at the top slide in first, smooth and slick and too big to fit inside her. She tried to hold still—struggling only made it hurt worse—but as it pressed against the most sensitive parts of her, she couldn’t stop herself from bucking upward. Next, she felt the rough wood of the cane sliding inside, and let out a small whimper. 

“Keep going,” Lady Tremaine hissed.

“I’m nothing,” she gasped, her pussy aching from being stretched out farther than it ever had before. “I’m worthless as a wife, I’m only good for being fucked, I’m so stupid and naïve, I—”

Lady Tremaine began fucking her with the cane, and, once again, Cinderella stopped being able to form words. As if from a distance, she heard herself sobbing. Her hips bucked. 

In that moment, she hated every damn thing in the world. She hated her body for betraying her. She hated her mind for breaking under pressure. She hated her husband for allowing this to happen. She hated every stone in the walls of the room, for blocking out the sound of her screams. She hated her bed for being comfortable and her stomach for being full and everyone who had ever told her she was good, for making her believe she deserved to be safe. And she hated Lady Tremaine, beyond all reason, for reducing her to this.

After what felt like hours, Lady Tremaine stopped, pulling the cane out with one swift movement. Cinderella deflated. She continued to stare at the ceiling as Lady Tremaine untied her, and gasped as the blood rushed back into her hands, creating a burning sensation in her wrists. 

“Give your husband my regards,” said Lady Tremaine, deftly wiping off the top of her cane with a silk cloth. She turned and left Cinderella alone with nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing. 

Weak and twitching, she flopped onto her side and pulled her knees up to her torso. Her entire body was drenched in sweat, and a tired, aching feeling settled over her. 

She stayed there for the better part of an hour, letting herself despair. Her husband would never love her if he knew what she’d done. Her future held nothing but more fear. She was never meant to be loved, she was only a thing to be wanted and hurt and discarded.

Then she sat up.

 _How do I get out of this alive?_ she asked herself, and the effort of asking the question, of making herself care whether or not she lived through the night, was greater than it had ever been before. She focused on practicalities first: she should probably find some medicine for the burn, and make sure the ropes hadn’t done any permanent damage to her hands. She stood up and wet a cloth in her washbasin.

 _How do I get out of this alive and sane?_ she asked next. She knew that she would not be going back down to the banquet. Strategically speaking, it was stupid to walk onto a battlefield when already gravely wounded. She would also not be speaking to her husband. His mercurial passion and false love was too much for her to bear, tonight.

Finally, as she pressed the wet cloth against her burn, she asked herself, _how do I get out of this alive, sane, and happy?_ And, for the first time in three years, the answer was obvious: she had to leave.

During her time at Lady Tremaine’s house, the answer to that question had been simple: she’d keep working towards achieving her dream of escaping, entering the magical world of the nobility, finding a place to rest and heal among people who loved her. Now, she knew that she could not rest here, that she would never be safe. Tonight had proven that.

Besides, there wasn't enough wine in the world to help her get over this.

She didn’t know where to go. It wouldn’t be difficult to steal a horse from the stables, since she’d always been good with animals, and no one would recognize the crown princess in a plain brown frock and a clean, unpainted face. But beyond that, she had no idea.

It was almost freeing, not to know.

She looked around the room, at the enormous bed, the closet full of dresses, the priceless jewelry lying on the vanity, everything she’d always dreamed of. And, for a second, she was fiercely proud of herself, for fighting for all of this, and winning it. She'd won before, and she'd win again, no matter how long it took for her to heal. 

Turning back to the mirror, she looked at her face--her tangled hair, her wild, spite-filled eyes. She looked like a wicked witch who'd just crawled out of a bog. It suited her.

Setting her jaw, she decided that, in twenty years or so, she would be happy, and she would forgive herself, and she would return to this palace just to spit on her stepmother's grave. She had dreamed it, and therefore it would be so.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I loved your prompt so much! I've always been fascinated by Cinderella, and I appreciated the chance to explore the character. Your suggestions were all lovely, and my biggest regret is that I didn't have time to write a longer fic and incorporate more of them. Also, this is the first time I've ever written porn that I've let anyone else see, so, uh, I hope it went okay.
> 
> I had a great time writing for you, and I hope your holiday season is going well!


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